


New Year, 2000

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted [9]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, New Year's Eve, Time Travel, also jehan kicking montparnasse's ass, and tension, honestly very strong, roof party, sorry this chapter is sad again, strong langugage, time traveler's wife au, with fairy lights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The music was pumping and Grantaire’s pulse was keeping pace, pounding in his ears.  This unwelcome collision of his past and present was setting him on edge. Enjolras might come looking for him any second, and the last thing he wanted was for Enjolras to discover this side of him. He wasn’t proud of who he’d been with Montparnasse. It would be enough to send Enjolras running for the hills, meadow be damned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_New Year, 2000 (Enjolras is 24, Grantaire is 27)_

The millennium, the turn of the century; the mark of a new era. The Twentieth Century had been pockmarked with wars, revolution and genocide… Enjolras would never say in so many words, but Grantaire knew he had big hopes for the twenty first.  


Personally, Grantaire couldn’t see that it would be any different. Different weapons that would be all. He didn’t say this to Enjolras of course. He wasn’t about to spoil what looked set to be a wonderful night of drinking, drinking and yep, you guessed it, more drinking.  


They’d commandeered the roof of Enjolras’ building for the night, and spent all afternoon dragging chairs and tables precariously up the fire escape. Jehan had decked out the place with fairy lights and Courfeyrac had installed the largest set of speakers Grantaire had ever seen. Bahorel had been slowly liberating the bar from all the difficult to procure cocktail ingredients and shakers for the past week or so, and then he and Feuilly – who lived down the hall from Grantaire and would have been a solid drinking buddy if he hadn’t always been at work (as it was, he hung out with them when he could, and had no other plans for New Years, and they’d been more than happy to invite him) – had delivered a couple of off-licenses of their alcohol supply.  


Enjolras’ friends had welcomed Feuilly with open arms, and Grantaire had been surprised to find he harboured such strong political opinions. Yet another friend lost to The Cause.  


“I seriously need to stop introducing you to my friends,” Grantaire laughed, catching Enjolras by the drinks table. Enjolras glanced up confused, until Grantaire gestured towards Feuilly who was deep in conversation with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “Unless you promise to stop recruiting them for your revolution, or whatever you want to call it.”  


Enjolras grinned. “You need to admit that you’ve been hanging around some politically charged people, and wonder what that says about you.”  


“It means I need new friends.” Grantaire muttered into his cup.  


Enjolras just laughed, clapped him on the shoulder and went to join the discussion.  


With an exaggerated head shake, Grantaire threw himself into a dining room chair beside Bahorel and kicked his feet up on to an end table which had also been repositioned on the roof for the evening.  


“At least I still have you,” he chuckled.  


“What’s that?” Bahorel took a swig of something bottled.  


“You haven’t been abducted into Enjolras’ _Save the World Scheme_.”  


Bahorel could only grin sheepishly.  


“You’re fucking kidding me; you as well?”  


He shrugged, “he said they might need back up at the next rally.”  


“So you’re _going_? I can’t believe he got you as well. Christ. It’s like you were a sleeper cell of secret revolutionaries.”  


“Always up for a good revolution. You will be sure to join us when the robots rise up now won’t you?” Bahorel chuckled, taking another drink and leaning back in his chair.  


Grantaire didn’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed (annoyed, he was annoyed). Jehan he could understand. He’d always loved philosophy and often engaged with Grantaire in philosophical debates, or discussions of dystopic literature, if they shared a lunch break. Feuilly he supposed he didn’t really know enough about to be surprised. They’d only ever got drunk together and started rambling about god knows what. Sport mostly – though neither of them seemed genuinely interested in it – books sometimes, Feuilly was working his way through one of those 100 books to read before you die lists, and Grantaire often helped him procure the more hard to find books, leaving them propped against the door to his flat. Sometimes it was art, Grantaire knew Feuilly was a much better artist than he pretended to be, but it was never politics. Which was probably a good thing judging from his eager face, as Grantaire watched him conversing with Enjolras.  


He drained his cup and tensed his stomach muscles to swing his legs off the end table. If this so-called party was going to diverge into a strategy meeting, he was going to need to be far more drunk, far more quickly.  


Music was pumping, the bass reverberating through the floor; something loud and cheerful and most definitely from Courfeyrac’s itunes. The city lights were too bright to make out any stars in the gathering gloom, but Jehan’s fairy lights made an adequate replacement. It was cold though, which was apparently something none of them had bothered to remember. Small drifts of snow lingered in the corners of the roof and everyone was huddled in coats and blankets over party clothes. A couple of people were even wearing scarves, which is why he almost didn’t recognise Eponine.  


“Grantaire?” she gasped, something fearful in her recognition.  


“What are you doing here?” he grinned, pulling her into a one armed hug, trying not to spill his freshly poured vodka and coke. Emphasis on the vodka, he was sure there was still some coke at the bottom of his glass somewhere.  


“Came to say hi to Courf. We didn’t plan on staying long.”  


We. He understood the fear in her voice. Montparnasse. Suddenly his good mood was shattered.  


“Where is he?” it came out as more of a growl than anything else.  


“Downstairs, taking a piss,”  


“Or snorting coke.”  


Eponine just shrugged. “If I’d known you were here I never would have – wait, are _you_ with Enjolras? Oh my god, no way are you the fabulous cooking artist that usurped Patria.” She grinned wickedly.  


No one could usurp Patria, Grantaire wanted to remind her, but he was too preoccupied with finding Montparnasse and getting him the hell out of there. He knocked back his drink, relishing the burn at the back of his throat and shook his head slightly, slamming the cup on the table and vaulting over the edge of the roof onto the fire escape.  


He scurried down the frozen metal steps and ducked through the open window which lead into Enjolras’ lounge. It was quieter in here, though the thumping music was still readily discernible, and warmer.  


The apartment was really a two bedroom set up, with two en-suite rooms, opposite the open plan kitchen and lounge, and a room at the end that was probably supposed to be a study or a dining room, but which had been appropriated as Courfeyrac’s room, meaning the guest toilet in the hall had also been appropriated as Courf’s. It was from this toilet that Grantaire watched Montparnasse emerge; movements shaky, eyes wide.  


He spotted Grantaire and a wide grin slid across his face.  


“R? Am I tripping or is that really you?” his long legs crossed the apartment in a flash.  


Grantaire had to steady himself not to take a step back.  


“I thought for sure you were dead.” He shoved a hand against Grantaire’s shoulder as if to test that he was real. Grantaire staged backwards this time, but Montparnasse thrust an arm out to catch him. His grip was tight on Grantaire’s upper arm, elegant – verging on spindly – fingers almost making a full circumference.  


“I thought for sure you were dead.” He repeated, bringing a hand up to push the curls back from Grantaire’s face.  


Grantaire wanted to snap back a retort, something witty, something scathing. If he’d really thought he was dead then why the hell didn’t he come looking for him?  


Instead, he lifted his face obligingly to look up at Montparnasse, and found himself trying to remember what he’d seen in the ghostly pale face, beaklike nose, dark eyes – always over dilated, always jumpy -, and perfectly coiffed black hair, stiff with whatever gels and sprays held it in place. It wasn’t hard to remember. He was handsome and there was something enticing in the smug curl of his lip, seductive in the long dark lashes. Yes there was definitely a reason ‘Parnasse had been able capture his imagination for so long, but there a multitude more reasons why Grantaire was glad to be rid of him.  


He wrenched his arm free but remained rooted to the spot.  


“You need to leave.” He asserted, before lapsing and adding a slight, “please,” almost under his breath.  


Montparnasse acted like he hadn’t heard him.  


The music was pumping and Grantaire’s pulse was keeping pace, pounding in his ears. This unwelcome collision of his past and present was setting him on edge. Enjolras might come looking for him any second, and the last thing he wanted was for Enjolras to discover this side of him. He wasn’t proud of who he’d been with Montparnasse. It would be enough to send Enjolras running for the hills, meadow be damned.  


“So, R, if you’re not dead – what have you been up to?”  


“No,” Grantaire shook his head and looked up from under knitted brows. “We’re not doing this now. You need to leave.”  


This time Montparnasse seemed to hear him.  


“Oh? And on whose authority would that be? I was invited here you know.”  


“I highly fucking doubt that.”  


Montparnasse glowered at him.  


“This is my party. So get the fuck out before throw you out.” He should have known better than to try and threaten Montparnasse. True to form ‘Parnasse just started to laugh. He threw his arms out and glanced around at the immaculate living room.  


“Your party? You mean to tell me that little R lives in this palace? Who’d you have to kill for this, then?” he leant close and added in a whisper which sent a chill running through Grantaire’s spine.  


Blinking slowly Grantaire grabbed a fist full of Montparnasse’s jacket, preventing him from straightening up again.  


“You _will_ leave.” He said; steady as he could, into ‘Parnasse’s ear before releasing the fist-full of material and turning to stalk back towards the window.  


Eponine almost collided with him as she swung off the fire escape.  


“I’m sorry,” she hissed, eyes wide, pausing to give him a quick peck on the cheek before darting across the living room and grabbing Montparnasse by the hand to try and drag him from the apartment. “We’re going,” she said loudly, and if it had been anyone else Grantaire would have said urgently.  


For a moment Grantaire stood wondering what one earth had given rise to Eponine wanting to flee the party. But then he heard footsteps ringing on the metal grille steps of the fire escape.  


Enjolras.  


Only it wasn’t.  
Grantaire barely had time to register the little bundled of lilac and strawberry blonde before it tore across the living room and sent Montparnasse reeling with a series of blows to the stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sorry for ruining your party,” Grantaire said quietly, taking another sip, wishing he could hide behind the water bottle and just disappear. Now would be a _really_ good time to Travel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to the wonderful [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) who continues to help me make sense of this story.

“Jehan!” Grantaire scrambled across the apartment to pull the little poet off Montparnasse.  


He hadn’t forgotten the Tae Kwando class Jehan had dragged him to in college (where he’d promptly been terrified by the sheer force hiding under the lavender jeans and strawberry blonde braid, and vowed never to return) and it seemed neither had Jehan. He’d already successfully tackled Montparnasse to the floor and was unleashing a torrent of eloquent abuse at him in between chops and kicks and punches. Grantaire could only make out snatches as he dragged Jehan away, trying to hold back both his arms and his legs, but it sounded almost Shakespearean. Actually, he could have sworn that was a quote from King Lear.  


“Christ you cunt.” Montparnasse growled, leveraging himself back to standing. “I think you broke my nose.”  


It was the only response he seemed intent on returning to Jehan’s diatribe, and Grantaire began to hope – foolishly – that this might be the end of it.  


Of course it wasn’t.  


Whilst Grantaire’s absence on the roof might have gone unnoticed, Jehan’s apparently hadn’t. Before Jehan had the chance to wriggle free and continue to do more than throw words at Montparnasse, Courfeyrac came tearing through the window to see what was going on.  


“Oh my god.” He gaped. “What happened?”  


“That fucking pansy assaulted me.” Montparnasse sneered, looking quite the sight with his dark hair in disarray and blood dripping from his nose.  


Grantaire couldn’t help himself. He’d held back to too long, and that was the last straw. He released Jehan and whirled round to swing his fist at Montparnasse’s face.  


He staggered back slightly, but he’d obviously been expecting it.  


Grantaire, however, wasn’t expecting the retaliation he had had ready.  


A quick jab to the stomach, an uppercut under the chin as he began to double over in pain and a right hook against his orbit. Grantaire slumped forwards, his vision momentarily blacking out.  


He came to almost instantly; losing only the few milliseconds it took him to crash to the floor. His ears were ringing and bright spots danced wherever he tried to look.  


“ _Grantaire!_ ”  


Suddenly there were hands all over him; in his hair, on his arms, round his waist trying to haul him to his feet. Then framing his face, joined by two pools of blue that swam in and out of focus, and a fuzzy halo of blonde.  


“Grantaire.”  


“Hey there Blue Eyes,” he mumbled with a sloping smile, bringing a hand up to gently pat the side of Enjolras’ face, it was clumsy and seemed to pad against his cheek rather more heavy-handed than Grantaire had intended. He tried to stand; wobbling to his feet and feeling incredibly light headed and disorientated. The room felt like it was spinning, his jaw was throbbing and he felt like he might puke at any given moment. But he was fine. He’d endured worse.  


Blinking through the white spots and ignored the hand hovering by his shoulder, he glanced around the apartment.  


The room was crowded with chaos.  


Bahorel had appeared and was manhandling Montparnasse out the front door, whilst Eponine and Courfeyrac exchanged apologetic words as she trailed after them; Courfeyrac keeping Jehan pinned to the sofa. He was still red faced and fuming, but wasn’t putting up much resistance to the arm Courf had thrown across his chest.  


The music was still pumping and a gaggle of curious party guests had descended from the roof, whispering loudly as they crowded around the window, and Feuilly, who looked entirely out of place.  


Combeferre was the only one moving around with any sense of calm. He pressed a bottle of water into Grantaire’s hand before moving over to ask for Feuilly’s help in the kitchen. Looking utterly relieved he followed Combeferre and returned with a faint smile, an ice pack and mug of tea. Grantaire was given the ice pack, which Enjolras snatched and proceeded to hold against his eye and survey him, deep in thought. He had that little crease between his eyes, and his lips were pushed into a thin line. Grantaire never knew what to make of that look; it always felt like disappointment.  


The tea went to Jehan and, when Combeferre returned from ushering the curious party guests back onto the roof, he knelt before him and gently took the poet’s hand into his own, examining the knuckles for any sign of damage.  


“I do hope he’ll be alright, I feel a little worried about sending him off like that.” He said quietly, turning Jehan’s hand over and gently feeling along the side of this thumb.  


“Montparnasse?” Jehan snorted. “He doesn’t deserve your worry.”  


“Who was he?” Enjolras asked, not taking his eyes of Grantaire.  


“No one,” Grantaire took charge of the icepack and slunk from Enjolras’ grip. “It doesn’t matter.”  


“Didn’t look like no one,” Courfeyrac commented. He’d stopped pinning Jehan down and was instead curled beside him on the sofa, sat against the arm rest so he could face him. He had a look of mingled awe and confusion spread across his face.  


The door opened and closed with a slam which briefly stole their attention, as Bahorel apologised for using more force than he’d meant to.  


“Put them in a cab and told them to go to the hospital,” he explained, running a hand through his shock of dark hair, with a deep exhalation.  


“Ten bucks says they don’t go.” Grantaire mumbled to no one in particular.  


“Just ten?” Jehan piped up. “Didn’t you see his eyes? He was high as a kite. There’s no way he’s going near anyone with authority, unless he starts another brawl before the night’s out and ends up in a cell.”  


“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Grantaire replied quietly. “Though, honestly, Prouvaire, I think this one’s all on you.”  


Jehan pulled his hand back from Combeferre and twisted in the sofa to peer at Grantaire who was slouched in the corridor behind him, propped against the sideboard.  


“I’m not sorry.” He said adamantly. “Prick has the audacity to turn up here after what he did to you? I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”  


“Thanks,” Grantaire chuckled, taking a sip of water. As much as he longed for the bitter sting of something stronger, he couldn’t deny it actually seemed to be settling his stomach.  


“So he wasn’t no one.”  


“He was a mistake,” Grantaire spat out eventually. He pulled the ice pack away from his face and threw it down on the sideboard. “A two year long mistake which cost me more than I’d like to admit, and which I really don’t want to fucking talk about. It’s New Year; can’t we just go back to getting pissed and planning revolutions?”  


“Holy fuck it’s almost midnight!” Bahorel cut in, graciously, grabbing Feuilly and Combeferre and sending them with a little nudge towards the roof, ushering Courfeyrac and Jehan up as well. He flashed Grantaire a smile before disappearing through the window, but Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure he was grateful for being left alone with Enjolras; especially not when he was still giving him that look.  


“Sorry for ruining your party,” he said quietly, taking another sip, wishing he could hide behind the water bottle and just fucking disappear. Now would be a _really_ good time to Travel.  


“It’s not my party.” Enjolras shrugged, offering nothing more.  


“That’s it? A huge ugly chunk of my past rears his head and you don’t care?”  


“Of course I _care_!” he snapped. “But you don’t seem to want to talk about it.”  


“That’s never stopped you before.” Grantaire snorted. “Aren’t you always trying to pry information from me? Isn’t that what you do best?” he crunched the bottle in his hand, the flimsy plastic not putting up much resistance, water sloshing on his shoes. “Or do you not want to know? That’s it isn’t it. You don’t want to find out. I’m already so much of a disappointment that you can’t face to discover anything more about who I really am.”  


“R, come on.”  


“No, see. There is it.”  


“What?”  


“ _R_.”  


Enjolras looked confused.  


“Don’t think I don’t know when you use that.”  


Enjolras didn’t say anything.  


“When I’m not _him_.” Grantaire snarled. “Well guess what, I’m not. And I know you’re fed up of waiting around for me to turn into him – so am I! Don’t think I would be him if I could? Don’t you think I’d –” he trailed off with a harrowing laugh, catching himself before he said too much. “But honestly? I don’t think it’s ever going to happen. I think you’ve created this _idea_ , of who he was, and it’s not me, Enjolras, it’s just not me.”  


His hand was shaking, the bottle crunching as he tried to steady his grip.  


“Don’t you dare.”  


“What?” he scoffed.  


“Don’t you dare try to ruin this.”  


“Try? Apollo I’m not _trying_. It’s entropy, it’s inevitable. I’m a fuck up – this is – ”  


“Grantaire.” Enjolras said calmly, but the balled fists, stiff by his sides, the white heat burning in his gaze told Grantaire that he was anything but. “You’re picking a fight because you’re scared. Scared that I’m not going to like your past.”  


“That’s not – ” Grantaire began to argue back, but Enjolras carried on with the same eerily even tone and he eventually fell silent.  


“Maybe I won’t, and maybe I have been waiting…and that was wrong of me. I’m sorry. But this? This is unfair. We’re in this together. We will work through this _together_. So when you feel grown up enough not to bicker about inevitability, you can find me on the roof.”  


“In this? What, like it’s been forced on you? It that how you see this – us? Like you have no choice?”  


Enjolras was already at the window. Grantaire watched him stop, place his palms on the sill and hunch forwards slightly. His shoulder’s heaving with each heavy breath as he picked his words carefully.  


“Of course we have a choice.”  


Grantaire snorted. He pushed himself off the sideboard and began to pace slightly. A choice. Like he’d chosen to interrupt this golden god’s childhood; force himself upon him.  


“I don’t see much fucking choice.” He said eventually.  


Something seemed to break in Enjolras’ expression. Grantaire immediately felt guilty, for what he’d said, for this whole evening, for this whole everything.  


“Well that saddens me.” Enjolras said, lifting his chin and puffing his chest slightly, although it contradicted everything Grantaire knew about Enjolras, it looked like he was trying not to cry. He nodded, an affirmation of some internal monologue that was unknown to Grantaire, and ducked through the window. He’d made it up a few steps before he came back, leaning through to stare at Grantaire with that fierce determination which suited him so much better than tears.  


“I would still have chosen you.” He said confidently. “When I saw you at the library. When you quoted _Discourse_ to me – even if your tone was mocking. You knew it where it was without looking. You…. And seeing you with…everything you do. I would still have chosen you.” he left quickly, footsteps ringing as his shoes clacked on the iron rungs.  


Grantaire stood stock still in the empty apartment, desperately wanting to believe him.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the delay between chapters, I was struggling with this one. Montparnasse is such a slippery character! Hopefully it turned out okay :)
> 
> My eternal thanks to the wonderful [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) and her continued patience with this fic.
> 
> Come say hi on [ Tumblr :)](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/)


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